


Reprehensible

by Teethteethteethteethteethteethteeth



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Angst, Cherri Cola needs a hug, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Memories, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:16:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24809887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teethteethteethteethteethteethteeth/pseuds/Teethteethteethteethteethteethteeth
Summary: Memory is not kind to Cherri Cola.
Relationships: Agent Cherri Cola & Show Pony (Danger Days)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 16





	Reprehensible

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! Warnings for heavy gore, death of unnamed characters, negative/self-deprecating thoughts, panic attacks and canon-typical mentions of addiction (waveriding)

And years ago, he’s watching the Girl run, frozen in place, powerless to stop her. And even further back, he’s storming Battery City just as the Fabulous Four would do, only he is successful, more or less. And he’s fourteen years old, spent two years in a Drac mask, when on a routine patrol through the desert, he hears a voice calling him, giving him the will to rip off the mask, bloody from where it had fused to his skin. 

It’s nights like these, when the memories howl in his skull, echo through his body like a forest fire, that Cherri Cola hates the most. And in a way, he welcomes them. After all he’s done, doesn’t he deserve to suffer? Shouldn’t he atone for his actions, first as a mindless Drac, then as the bloodthirsty rebel, tearing apart BLI employees slowly and painfully? He shudders, with the memory of hot blood running down his hands, the sensation of swinging a fist forward and shattering a man’s nose, sending bone fragments splintering back into his brain. 

Breathe. Cherri needs to take a breath, plant his boots on the uneven floorboards beneath him. Half-smile and willing hands (hand). His thoughts are just thoughts, and he is in control. Cherri Cola is in control. Outside, one of Show Pony’s kinetic sculptures clatters around with the wind, and Cherri startles, silently leaping from his seat and grabbing the nearest blunt object. Cherri Cola is not in control. 

Eventually he concludes that sitting in the dark trying to meditate his thoughts away is working way worse than it’s supposed to, and he stumbles downstairs to the kitchen, trying to ignore the memories of choking countless Dracs until his hands ached. His hands ache now, the physical and the remembered, his brain unable to let go of the sensation, like so many other things Cherri should be over by now. Breathe. Let the thoughts flow through your mind like leaves on a river. Cherri’s never seen a river, but that’s what he’s supposed to do, so he tries. 

There’s half a bag of chips in the kitchen, so Cherri takes them and a glass of water (spurting from the ancient tap like a severed jugular) to his recording room, settling in his chair with a well-worn little book, watercolor dandelion faded on the warped and worn cover. He breathes in, slowly, before each bite of food, trying to ground himself in the sensation of eating, but the food in his mouth feels thick and tasteless, and he swallows it down before he chokes. 

Breathe! You are alive, and that is a gift!

If being alive is a gift, why’s he alive, and not the hundreds of people more deserving than he? Why not the hundreds of people whose lives he personally ended? (The recoil of a blaster in his hands, firing over and over into the dead body of a prison guard, Newsagogo staring at him in horror, drenched in his own blood and the blood of so many others). The glass of water sloshes in his shaking hand, and he goes to steady it with the other, unthinkingly. And he can almost feel the smooth glass, wet with condensation against his palm, but he can’t, and it feels wrong, and he shoves the glass away in a panic, sending water flying everywhere as it shatters against the floorboards. (The glass windshield shatters as Cherri plows through a squad of Dracs, jumping out to finish them off by hand). Cherri’s nails dig into his palm, and the pain brings him back to the present with a strangled gasp. 

The digital clock in the recording room screams the time in a blaze of teal light. Cherri’s been awake through the night, and he’s dreading the sun’s rise. He stands to retreat back to his room, pull the blackout curtains closed. His book tumbles to the floor, landing face-down in the water, pages bent. He doesn’t have the heart to leave it there, so he scoops it up, heading to the kitchen where he’ll press each page between paper towels he can’t afford to waste on the little book. He sneers as he does it. How typical of him to spare more compassion for a thing than every person he’s ever met. He presses on the book to squeeze the water out, and suddenly he’s applying desperate pressure to a nameless killjoy’s stab wound, feeling their life trickle out between his fingers, watching the blue of their lips deepen and spread across their face, the same shade as their too-bright, too-new hairdye. He’s not sure how long he stands caught in memories— as soon as the first ends, he’s walking away from the trans am as his siblings-in-arms speed off to their deaths, he’s gagging on the smell of rot and decay as he hacks his own arm off and buries it, delirious and alone. He’s burning on a mattress in the sun, thoughts an incoherent jumble of ecstasy and anguish, he’s a child in the city reporting his older brother for anti-BLI sentiments, he didn’t know better, he didn’t have any other choice, he needs to breathe but no matter how much air he breathes in it’s not enough, and he’s lightheaded, stumbling for balance and he still can’t get enough air. And he’s flat on his back on the kitchen, light glaring in from the uncovered windows, and Show Pony’s leaning over him, movements unsure, expression hidden beneath aer helmet. Cherri looks away as Show Pony hauls him up and carries him to his room, drawing the curtains tight and double checking that no sunlight peeks around the edges. As ae pull the door closed, ae murmur,  
“I’ll tell D you can’t make your broadcast today”, and ae leave without another word, more quiet than ae have any right to be. Cherri tries to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry.  
> Leave a comment, and come find me on tumblr @wishiwasthemoon-tonight!  
> This was based off of both comics Cherri and twitter Cherri, who have waaaayy different personalities. The guy’s trying to come to terms with his past and it’s just not working. The book he reads is ‘Peace is Every Step’, by Thich Nat Hanh, which I actually do recommend as an insomnia read.


End file.
